Bruce did not keep Angron waiting for long, and that alone put the Red Angel in an excellent mood.
More than that, this was the first Astartes who had dared walk straight toward him without the slightest trace of fear.
That pleased the Lord of the Red Sands even more.
This was one of Angron's defining contradictions.
He hated domineering people, yet admired courage—especially when it came from someone far weaker than himself.
In terms of being twisted and contradictory, Angron was no less severe a case than Perturabo. The only difference was that the former had been ruined by fate and remained fundamentally decent, which made him tragic, while the latter had simply taken a perfect hand and played it into the dirt.
A good woman forced into the gutter draws pity from men. One who throws herself in willingly is another matter entirely.
"An honor to meet you, Lord Angron. I am Bruce Wayne, and I bring greetings on behalf of the Eighth Legion and Warmaster Horus."
Bruce vaulted over the barbed, razor-wired railing and dropped into the caged pit below.
Only after landing inside that inescapable killing ground did he truly understand how oppressive it was to fight inside such an arena.
Apart from the light overhead, every detail of the place drove those inside toward a fight to the death.
At some point, even the air itself became a resource. If you wanted to breathe deeply and freely, there was only one way to secure it: kill your opponent and remain the only living thing still standing.
"You're even smaller than I imagined, Bruce," Angron said, studying him.
And the more he looked, the more satisfied he became.
In all these years, besides Khârn, Bruce was the first person to challenge him without permission.
Was he really that eager to die?
"That is because you are Angron, lord of the World Eaters, the greatest gladiator of Nuceria. I am nothing but a nobody."
Bruce raised his voice deliberately.
"If the chroniclers ever record what happens here today, then the only reason my name will be written down at all is because of you, Lord Angron."
"Flattery won't save your life, Bruce."
Angron said it with clear irritation, but anyone with eyes could tell he was enjoying himself immensely.
If he had been even slightly displeased, he would already have swung his axe.
There was no way he would have stood there listening patiently otherwise.
"This is not flattery. It is simply the truth."
Bruce's tone remained light.
"And if a few well-placed words are enough to win the trust of three Primarchs, then I should count myself very fortunate indeed."
"Heh."
Angron gave a cold laugh and said no more.
He had to admit it—Bruce was very good at giving people exactly the emotional response they wanted.
Even knowing it was deliberate, it landed in just the right way.
No wonder the Warmaster trusted him.
"Lord Angron, do you still remember the duel I proposed to you?"
Bruce made sure every person present could hear him.
"Of course I remember! Then what are you waiting for? Take off your helmet and fight me! That is your honor, Bruce!"
At once, Angron's battle-lust flared.
"Of course. That is precisely why I came."
Bruce pressed the release catches, removed his helmet, and tucked it under one arm.
"Before that, though, I would ask one thing of you."
"You haven't even won yet and you're already asking for a prize? You won't get that chance."
Angron sneered.
I'll split you in half with one swing, and you're talking to me about terms?
Maybe in your next life.
"You are a Primarch. I am an Astartes. Does this duel not seem rather lacking in suspense?" Bruce asked.
"In the arena, disparity in strength means nothing. There are only winners and losers."
"But I can't die here."
Bruce's answer was calm and matter-of-fact.
"If I die, what happens to the Eighth Legion? What happens to the task the Warmaster entrusted to me?"
Angron's expression immediately darkened.
So that was it. You were taking a swipe at him.
"And what exactly are you getting at?"
"I am willing to fight to the death. But I cannot defeat you."
Bruce finally laid out the key condition he had come here for.
"So I ask that you set a victory condition for me."
"Speak," Angron barked.
"If I can survive thirty-one hours against you in this duel, then I am the victor. Agreed?"
That was the heart of it.
Bruce knew perfectly well he could not beat a Primarch.
Even Magnus, whose close-combat abilities leaned toward the weaker side, had nearly killed him with a single solid blow. Bruce had spent a long time recovering from that. If he fought Angron head-on, he would be turned into paste.
If raw stats were hopeless, then the only path left was mechanics.
And if Angron refused?
Bruce already had his answer to that too.
If Angron said no, he would pull out the Anywhere Door and leave on the spot.
His life was his own. Angron could keep the "victory." If it came to that, Bruce would just shift to ordinary attrition and do whatever he could.
Things had already gone beyond the point where words alone could solve them.
"Thirty-one hours…"
Angron looked surprised at first, then narrowed his eyes.
"You know what that number means?"
"To be honest, of course I do."
Bruce met his gaze.
"In that uprising, if you and your comrades had only been given thirty-one more hours, you would have beaten the slavers. Unfortunately, the Emperor ruined everything."
At once Angron roared, fury exploding out of him.
"I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU! I'LL KILL YOU!"
Bruce had hit the scar dead center.
This bastard actually dared say that here?
"And if anger helps you understand my point, then I consider that worthwhile."
Bruce did not retreat an inch.
"What I say is not mockery, nor am I trying to provoke you for its own sake. I only want you to understand this—"
"We are not enemies. We are allies."
"I know your past. I know that in that battle, it was the Emperor who made the mistake. His coldness, his utilitarian choice—that is what led to the deaths of your comrades."
He paused, then said the next line without hesitation.
"If I had been there, then as an outsider looking in, I would have chosen to fight beside you until the very end."
That statement stunned everyone.
On the Conqueror, in the pit, in the stands, and even aboard the Remilia through the live feed, all who heard it froze.
To criticize the Emperor so openly?
Did he have a death wish?
Angron, however, burst into laughter.
"HAHAHAHAHAHA—!"
"I'll admit it, you do know how to entertain me. So that's why Horus trusts you. I understand now!"
"Bruce Wayne, you clown!"
"I am merely stating what I believe."
Bruce's tone stayed level.
"And there is still one thing I have not yet said."
"If you insist on advancing, then I fear the situation will repeat itself."
He spoke slowly, clearly.
"You and your legion will be trapped on Nuceria."
"And this time, the Emperor will not come to save you."
"I COULDN'T ASK FOR ANYTHING BETTER!" Angron roared with savage delight.
"Then give the order to advance on Nuceria."
Bruce raised his hand, as if poised to sign a command.
"But before you launch that assault, I will authorize Exterminatus and erase Nuceria."
"Your comrades. Your past. Everything you once had. All of it will vanish without a trace."
"If that is the ending you're willing to accept, then so be it."
"You're threatening me, clown?"
Angron turned toward Khârn, ready to issue the order to attack.
But Bruce's next words stopped him.
"Lord Angron, since neither of us intends to yield, then perhaps we should resolve this in the oldest, fairest way possible."
Bruce's voice was calm and firm.
"A duel."
"The victor wins the right to decide what happens next."
That made Angron go still.
In the pit, the World Eaters fell silent as well.
"A duel?" he said at last. "Why should I agree to that? What are you?"
"I am the Warmaster's voice," Bruce replied coldly, "and the acting commander of the Eighth Legion."
"You may look down on me, but surely you do not look down on the Warmaster—or on my Primarch."
That line landed.
Angron still burned with rage, but in Bruce's eyes there was a small sign of success:
Angron had not given the order to attack.
That meant the pressure was working.
The hound was still snarling, but it had not yet lunged.
That meant there was still room to bargain.
"What do you really want?" Angron asked.
For all the damage in his head, he was no fool. He understood far more than people gave him credit for—he simply suffered for the act of thinking.
That was the curse of the Nails.
If he could avoid thinking, he did.
But when forced, he still could.
"Since you are a gladiator," Bruce said, "and this is Nuceria, then let us settle this as gladiators."
"Should I win, you step back. Should you win, I step back."
"…."
For a long beat, Angron stared at him.
Then he laughed.
"Do you really think you can win?"
Bruce answered without hesitation.
"Of course not."
His honesty was so blunt that the whole arena seemed to pause again.
"Against a Primarch? Impossible. But I don't need to defeat you. I only need to win the duel."
That answer amused Angron even more.
"Good! Very good!"
He grinned, savage and pleased.
"Bruce Wayne… you really are interesting."
"All right. If you can withstand thirty-one minutes of my full assault, then I will declare you the victor."
Whether it was a reward, a gesture of contempt, or simply because he considered Bruce too weak to be worth stricter terms, Angron granted him an altered condition.
It was, in its own brutal way, mercy.
He knew perfectly well that thirty-one hours would have been meaningless.
Not even Primarchs could keep up a true all-out battle for that long without end.
But thirty-one minutes?
That was still nearly impossible, but not wholly absurd.
"I am honored to stand as your opponent, Lord Angron."
Bruce turned and hurled his helmet toward the stands.
Alfred, waiting outside the pit, caught it cleanly with both hands and turned it so that its faceplate looked directly down into the arena.
"My Primarch is not here in person," Bruce said, "but her helm will bear witness to this duel between us."
He extended his lightning claws with a snap, then swept his red cloak across his body with his free hand.
"Have you prepared your last words?" Angron asked, tightening his grip on Gorefather.
Then he exhaled.
The bronze figure flashed forward.
In an instant, Angron's axe came down toward Bruce's head.
He was so fast that Bruce's absurd, near-divine precognition lagged by half a second.
Half a second.
More than enough time to die several times over.
I've got you, you irritating little clown.
Angron had already imagined the next moments.
Bruce's head would come off. His body would drop. The corpse would be gathered up out of basic courtesy. Then Angron would proceed to Nuceria, and over the next thirty-one hours he would wipe it from existence.
But then, something changed.
A strange force nudged the path of the axe.
Bruce flicked the crimson cloak before him, and the blade slid past the line of his armor by mere millimeters before smashing into the ground beside him instead.
The impact shook the entire arena.
At the same time, a lightning-fast punch burst through the cloud of red dust and slammed toward Angron's chest.
Angron raised his arm to block—
Only to find his own movement strangely thrown off to the side.
Boom.
Bruce's lightning claw crashed solidly into the breastplate of Angron's armor, making the Primarch take several steps back from the pain and impact. He ripped his axe free from the ground and stared.
"What?"
He looked at Bruce, who still stood exactly where he had been, calmly adjusting that red cloak.
What in the hell had just happened?
Join here to read ahead.
In Star Rail, Ultra-Beast Armored — Have I Caught "Equilibrium"? l (Chapter 80)
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I, Lord Ravager, Utterly Loyal! (Chapter230)
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After Maxing Out Every Class 45
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